


Cold

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cold Crowley, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, extremely soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 22:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: Crowley comes in from a winter storm; Aziraphale warms him up.





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been active on Ao3 for over a month now, and I’m overwhelmed by the amount of support I’ve been getting. Thank you, everyone, for all your kind words, your kudos and comments. Thank you especially to those people who have been leaving kudos on every one of my fics - I see you, I notice you, I appreciate you so much. 
> 
> I want to do some requests. If there’s any particular scene you’d like me to write between Crowley and Aziraphale, just leave a comment and I’ll put it on my list. You can do this even if you’ve never left a comment or kudos for me before, it’s open to all, but I especially urge those of you who have been so kind as to leave me a lot of feedback, let me do something in return! I do everything except smut. 
> 
> Thank you again and enjoy this fluffy little fic in the meantime!

The bookshop door opens with a bang, blown wide by icy wind, though Crowley only pushed it open a crack. He stumbles in, breath still misting in front of his face, cheeks stinging and fingers numb. He slams the door and leans heavily against it. 

“Whoo-ee,” he gasps. “It’s _freezing_ out there.” 

Aziraphale looks up from his desk. He’s wearing those silly spectacles he doesn’t need; he smiles at Crowley’s appearance. “Ah, my dear. How are you?” 

That’s it. Just “how are you,” no surprise, no inquiry about what Crowley’s doing here. Just the warm, knowing smile. It’s a familiar old dance, and Crowley knows all the steps, and Aziraphale matches him pace for pace; for winters innumerable now Crowley has come to a single place and not needed to ask for anything. 

“Cold,” he complains, and stamps his frozen feet, shaking off the last residue snow before stalking over to the nearest couch and flinging himself down on it. “Weather’s a bastard. Why did we both decide to live here in London, again? It was so much warmer in Rome. Or _Egypt_. Now they had prime weather for a snake.” 

“If I recall,” says Aziraphale, removing his spectacles primly and laying them aside, standing from his desk to approach the couch, “_I_ decided to move to London to open my bookshop, and you moved here for convenience.” 

“Convenience. Right.” Crowley pulls off his gloves and hat, his hair sticking up in every direction. He gets a shock of static electricity when he tries to smooth it down. “So we could meet anytime we had to for the Arrangement.” 

“Quite right.” Aziraphale circles the couch and sinks down next to Crowley. “And so you could keep tabs on me, wily adversary that you are.” 

“Hrmph.” 

It’s nothing that requires words. Aziraphale learned early on that Crowley is embarrassed to ask, endlessly embarrassed to need things, and so he does it without prompting, takes Crowley’s chilled fingers and rubs them between his warm ones. The sensation takes the frigid smarting away, but it’s when Aziraphale blows his angelic breath over Crowley’s hands that numbness recedes and warmth spreads straight to his bones. 

“How’s the shop?” Crowley asks as Aziraphale’s hands move up his arms, over his jacket, gently removing the outer layer when they reach his shoulders. 

“Not bad. Only one customer this morning, and she was more interested in looking around than actually purchasing anything.” Aziraphale folds up the jacket and lays it over the far arm of the sofa, then turns back to Crowley, pulling him down to lean against him, head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale puts an arm around him, and Crowley closes his eyes, relaxing into the embrace, letting it warm the rest of him. Aziraphale is so wonderfully, effortlessly bright. 

“Glad to hear it,” Crowley mumbles. 

Aziraphale’s other hand begins to comb slowly through Crowley’s hair. Crowley can’t resist a smile as warmth trickles down from the crown of his head, over his temples and down his wind-reddened neck. Aziraphale’s thumb strokes over Crowley’s cheekbone, then his hand cups Crowley’s face, and it’s the most pleasant feeling in the world. 

“I’ve decided,” said Aziraphale, “to compose a series of commentaries on the works of Charles Dickens.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale smooths back Crowley’s hair again, softly, tenderly. “I happen to have had some correspondence with the writer that I think will provide some wonderful insights. It shouldn’t take more than a year or so. What do you think?” 

Crowley nestles farther into Aziraphale with a contented hum. “Perfect. I’ll be the first to read it when it’s published.” 

They don’t require words exchanged to know that what Crowley really means is, he’ll stretch out in an armchair with his eyes shut just like this and Aziraphale will read it to him, gently inquiring every few pages if he’s still awake, to which Crowley will smile and say he’s awake, of course he is, he’s listening. The dance continues, easy and comfortable. 

Aziraphale reaches behind him and pulls a blanket from its position draped over the couch, wrapping it around Crowley and himself, trapping their body heat close. Crowley enjoys the blanket’s softness, though it’s nothing compared to his angel. Then a steaming mug materializes in Aziraphale’s hand. 

“Cocoa?” he offers. 

Crowley wriggles even closer to Aziraphale before he takes the mug, wrapping both hands around it. “Always.” 

“I made it without miracles. I’ve been experimenting more with human things, now that I’m no longer on Heaven’s payroll.” 

“How rebellious of you.” Crowley smirks and takes a deep gulp of the cocoa - it’s not as good as the miraculous kind, but they have time to improve it. They have all the time in the universe, in fact. “Next you’ll tell me you’re actually trying to sell some books.”

“Let’s not push it, my dear.” 

Crowley laughs, a full, deep laugh, leaning his head back on the couch, still pressed against Aziraphale’s shoulder. The chill of outside is entirely forgotten. Here, in one tiny corner of one city in the world, Crowley is entirely safe. 

Then Aziraphale twists his head and kisses Crowley softly on the cheek. 

Crowley blinks, his eyes snapping open and around to see Aziraphale. The angel is smiling his gentlest smile. 

“Is that all right, dear?” he asks. It’s an admission that he’s just broken the dance, and he’s ready to pull away again if Crowley minds - but Crowley doesn’t mind, of course he doesn’t. 

He grins. “Better than all right.” 

So Aziraphale kisses him again, a little longer, before they settle back into each other and Crowley continues drinking the cocoa. Crowley can hear, in the minds of both of them, this new information setting into place. A new step added to the end of the song, a new ending rhythm that they’ll add every time Crowley comes in. He needn’t ever ask again, if he doesn’t want to. Aziraphale will remember. 

Crowley sighs. He could stay here forever. It’s warm here - it’s so, so warm.


End file.
